Watch over you
by Teatime87
Summary: Sherlock finds a letter in John's drawer. Inspired by the Song "Watch Over You" from AlterBridge. Warning: Character death.
1. Chapter 1

_Coughing from the kitchen._

" _John ..."_

 _More coughing._

" _John!"_

" _Sherlock, dammit!" Hoarse voice. "If I could make it stop, I would!"_

" _I think you're a doctor! Aren't you able to treat yourself? You're disturbing my thinking for weeks now with your coughing!"_

" _I think it's still from the flu I had a few weeks ago ..."_

" _I don't care! Make it stop!"_

* * *

 _Dyspnoea._

 _Night sweats._

 _Panic._

 _Gasping._

 _The sink._

 _Coughing._

 _Blood._

" _Shit ..."_

 _Fear._

 _Blood roaring in the ears._

" _Oh shit ..."_

* * *

 _Footsteps on wooden stairs._

" _I said I need some of the gauze."_

" _Huh?"_

" _For my experiment."_

" _I wasn't at home, Sherlock."_

" _Oh … where have you been?"_

" … "

" _John."_

" _What?"_

" _Where have you been?"_

" _I … I have been … in … shopping."_

" _What's that letter?"_

 _Rustling of paper. "I'm upstairs."_

" _John … the gauze!"_

* * *

"John?"

John just went upstairs and entered his room when he spotted Sherlock in front of his desk. He stood there next to the opened drawer with a letter in his hand.

"What … Sherlock, what are you doing in my room?"

Sherlock turned to him with furrowed eyebrows. "What is this?"

When John recognized the letter it felt like a handful of lava has been poured out inside of him.

"Sherlock, did you … why are you rummaging around my stuff?!" With a quick step he went up to his flatmate and was about to take the letter from him, but Sherlock stretched his arm to keep it out of reach for John. The lava blew up and sent a wave of anger through John's body.

"Give the letter to me, Sherlock!" He was able to grab the corner of the letter and tugged at it, but the dark haired man kept a firm grip on it.

"Sherlock, damn it! Let go!"

Finally he managed to wrest the piece of paper from him – or did he let go in the end? Doesn't matter. All John was able to think about was to fold that foul piece of paper and tuck it into the pocket of his trousers. Out of sight, out of mind. If it just would be so easy.

Sherlock fixated the doctor with his eyes as if he was trying to suck those answers right out of his brain. John interrupted him before he has been able to read the letter properly, but the few things he picked up were making him breaking out in cold sweat. "John", he whispered warningly. "What. Is. This?"

Automatically John took a step backwards. He stared down on the floor as if he could find the words there to explain the situation to his friend. But he couldn't.

Sherlock felt impatience well up inside him, spurred on by that horrid foreboding that came up when he has been skimming the text of the report. The report with that round logo of the St. Bart's hospital. It remained a foreboding. Nothing confirmed, nothing final and it made him feel agitated.

By now John seemed to be lost in his own head. With a vacant expression and sagging shoulders he stood in front of him and fixated a random spot on the dark floorboards. Sherlock realised that he had to take the first step and the mere thought of asking that question, of making his assumption sound like it was a fact left a bitter taste on his tongue.

"What kind is it?" His voice sounded quieter and calmer than he expected. But that was a good thing, for it made John snap out of his trance.

"W-what do you m-"

"What kind of cancer, John!"

"Lung cancer." It was merely audible but for Sherlock it sounded unbearably jarring, it made him want to cover his ears. A giant icy fist took hold of his heart, squeezed it mercilessly to squash it. He barely dared to ask a further question. But he had to know it all. He just had to. "What … kind of specification?"

John swallowed hard and avoided Sherlock's gaze. He wasn't even able to say it out loud to himself. He remembered the day when the doctor made the diagnosis and he was afraid of seeing a reflection of his own reaction on Sherlock's face. "A … a small-cell bronchogenic carcinoma."

Sherlock met John's gaze, when he looked up at him briefly. He wished he didn't see what showed on his friend's face now: horror and pure fear.

"Chances for a cure?" Right now Sherlock wasn't able to form full sentences. He was in fearful anticipation of those answers and it made him feel like he's choking. He took a few deep breaths to make sure his lungs get filled with enough air.

John started to shake inwardly, as if a single snowflake settled inside of him and grew to lump of ice that made him freeze. He shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. "It … it already spread metastases … in the kidney and … the brain."

Sherlock's skin rose in horror. He took in a shaky breath, blinking repeatedly as he tried to suppress those tears from welling up in his eyes. He rubbed his eyelids until he saw stars. The shock and sadness gave away to uncontrollable anger. Anger about his helplessness, the realisation that there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ he could do to help John. It almost made him lose his mind. "How long do you know about it?"

"Since two weeks."

"Two- … You know about it since _two weeks_? WHEN DID YOU PLAN ON TELLING ME THIS?!" He had to vent. He couldn't show tears so it had to be anger.

John balled his hands into fists until his nails left half-moon-shaped imprints on the heels of his hands. "What are you upset about anyway! It's my business and it's my damn decision if and who I tell about it!"

"You tell me not to be upset?! So I should just not care that you're terminally ill?!"

"Oh, _now_ you care about it? I think it was you who told me to go and cry at the bed of the dying people and see to what use it is to them? I'm a dying man too, Sherlock, why- ..." His voice broke so unexpectedly that he wasn't able to hold back the tears any longer. He turned away from him. Looking down on the floor he lifted his hand to wipe the tears off his face.

At John's words Sherlock felt like he's been punched in the gut. No, John was an exception. John was the good thing that was said to be found in everyone. What would be left of him without John?

As if he would approach a timid animal Sherlock stepped up to John. Carefully, fearing he might vanish into thin air if he moves to hastily, he lifted his hand and put it on John's shoulder. He couldn't help but close his eyes at the touch. He felt the soft fabric of his jumper, a subtle warmth coming from the body in it, he just felt John. He didn't know for how long he stood there like this, his eyes closed and his lips parted, ready to speak. A million thoughts popped up in his head, each one of them forging ahead, jostling each other to be expressed before the others.

 _I do care about you._

 _I feel so helpless, John._

 _I don't want you to die._

 _Please stay with me._

 _I'm scared._

 _There is nothing I can do._

"John, I … I'm sorry."

Slowly John lifted up his head when he heard the shaky, broken voice of the man standing in front of him. "Sherlock ..."

"Please forgive me."

John caught a glimpse of a tear shyly rolling down his cheek, then Sherlock pushed past him and went downstairs.

As he watched him leave, he stopped at the door frame, called for him, but the only thing he heard was the front door falling shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello everybody! Here's the new chapter. I hope you enjoy the story so far :)

* * *

„ _Good morning, Sherlock."_

 _Rustling of the newspaper._

 _A chair scraping the floor. Clinking of porcelain._

" _Sherlock, would you hand me the coff- … thank you."_

…

" _So? Anything interesting in the newsp-"_

" _No."_

 _Ticking of the clock. Noise of a honking car outside._

" _Did Lestrade already call you about the c-"_

" _Yes."_

" … _so?"_

" _Case's solved." Rustling. Chair scraping the floor. Footsteps._

" _Where are you going?"_

" _Out."_

* * *

" _Hi, Sherlock. Where are you?"_

" _At the crime scene."_

" _What crime scene?"_

" _Lestrade called me this morning. Double homicide."_

" _Where is it? I'll join you then."_

" _Not necessary. The case is practically solved."_

" _But-"_

" _I said, it's not necessary."_

" _Alright. I'll see you … later."_

* * *

" _John? You're home already?"_

" _Yes, Barry took over my shift. Dr. Merswiak's orders. I told him about the … the thing today. … uh, Sherlock? Where are you going?"_

" _I've got something to do at the … the … lab."_

" _But what about your experi-"_

" _Don't wait for me."_

 _Door falling shut._

* * *

"Sherlock?" John stood in the door frame to the living room, looking at the detective, who was sitting in his chair, legs crossed and lost in his thoughts. John had to repeat his name once more to make Sherlock snap out of his trance. His pupils finally moved to look up at him.

"John."

"You, uh … can I talk to you for a moment?"

Sherlock's composure became rigid, his features hardening. "To be honest, right now is not a very good time for that." He got up and buttoned up his suit jacket. "Molly's got an autopsy report for me, I want to pick it up before she leaves. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but you don't need to wait for me."

Sherlock was about to step past John into the hall, but the doctor grabbed his arm to stop him. "What's the matter, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "What's the matter with what?"

"You know what I mean."

"Could you be a little more specific? And quick please, because as I said I need to go to St. Bart's?"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Sherlock pulled his arm out of John's grip and furrowed his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

John blinked briefly. "You're avoiding me, Sherlock, you … you barely speak with me, you don't tell me when Lestrade has a case for us, but you're going on your own." John didn't want to admit how much Sherlock's behaviour really hurt him, but his emotions betrayed him by making his voice sound very shaky. "You're like this since you know about my … my disease. Why? I thought if there is a person I can rely on, then it would be you."

Sherlock clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. He started to feel nauseous. He knew that John would want to have this conversation sooner or later, but he tried to stall that moment as long as he could, because he wasn't ready for this yet. Not ready for this conversation, not ready for the words, he had to say to go through that topic and not ready for the emotions that would be attached to it. His first impulse was to run away, like the rabbit runs from the fox. Before he knew it, his legs started to move. "I … I got to go." He pushed past John, but the doctor moved quick enough to block his way.

"No. You won't run away again, Sherlock. I want to talk about this."

"Let me pass."

"No."

"John ..." Sherlock's voice was a warning murmur now. He moved to invade John's personal space. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

"Why don't you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock glared at him.

The doctor was barely able to hide his disappointment and hurt feelings. Should he really have been that wrong about Sherlock? Wasn't he a friend at all? Just a flatmate who leaves him alone in troubled times? Didn't he have a friend to help him through the most difficult time of his life? Was that the conclusion he had to draw?

Slowly John lowered his gaze and stepped aside.

Wasting no time, Sherlock walked past him, grabbed his coat and pulled the door close behind himself.

John felt miserable, abandoned and sad. All of this he put into one single teardrop that slowly rolled down his cheek.

* * *

John stood in his room in front of the small window and looked outside on the streets of London. A few hours ago it had started to rain, the wet streets reflecting the light of the street lamps while a car now and then tore through the puddles of rain.

He didn't know for how long he was already standing there, but when he had stepped into his room to look out of the window it had been bright and dry outside. Now a church tower was striking three o'clock, but John wasn't able to turn away from that bleak sight he felt to be a part of.

Over and over Sherlock's face popped up in his mind, the way he had looked at him, so cold that it almost made him shiver. It left him completely dumbstruck. He really believed that Sherlock would be there for him. That he would help him in the most difficult time of his life. It hurt so much that he was so wrong about his friend. The disappointment and shock made him feel like plummeting from great height onto concrete ground – leaving him dazed, numb, but the throbbing pain keeping him conscious at the same time.

He felt so lonely like he was when he came back from Afghanistan. Only this time he felt even more abandoned, because now he would lose more than what he had before he met Sherlock.

"John?"

He swang around, spotting Sherlock standing in the door frame to his room. It was too dark to see many details. The only thing John was able to make out was Sherlock still wearing his coat. Why didn't John hear the front door opening and closing, the creaking of the wooden steps, when Sherlock went upstairs, but did hear the low baritone of his friend's voice that has been enough to pull him out of his thoughts?

For a moment they both just stood there, Sherlock still hidden in the darkness, while John was illuminated by the moonlight coming from the window.

"John, I … I wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier and the previous days."

John was surprised to hear those words from his flatmate, for he never says such things usually. He didn't dare to move or speak, fearing Sherlock might leave if he does.

Sherlock took one step further into the room without taking his eyes off John. "I ..." He cleared his throat and lowered his gaze. Suddenly he looked unbelievably lost, like he was seeking the right words to say, hoping he would find them there on the floor.

"Sherlock", John whispered and then moved to stop right in front of him and draw his eyes back on him.

Hesitantly Sherlock's gaze climbed up the doctor's body, stopping briefly on his chest, as if he has to bring himself to look him in the eyes. He opened his mouth, meaning to say something, but then he closed it again. This repeated a few times.

John waited patiently for his friend to find the right words he wanted to say. Truth was, he had to hear them, even if those words would pull the rug from under his feet.

"I … I avoided you, because ..." Sherlock's mouth hung open as he stared at a random point somewhere behind John, lost in thought. Then he closed his eyes, forcing himself out of that trance. "I just didn't know how to deal with this … with you." Finally he managed to look at John's face.

"I was afraid to say something wrong … do something wrong. Afraid you might want to talk about about _it_ and that I might have no idea how to react, John. I feel … helpless. I want to help you, but I can't. I just can't, damn it! All I can do is watch. It's making me crazy. I just wanted to avoid all of this, do you understand? I didn't want to mess about with it, I wanted to distract myself. The more I got worried the more desperate I got and tried to seal myself off from you, because … I feel guilty, John. _Guilty_. I couldn't bear the mere thought, let alone talk about it. How am I supposed to comfort you? Support you? The truth is that … that there hasn't been anyone in my life I wanted to comfort and support. And now, look at me … I'm running away like a child. I-I'm sorry, John, I just don't know what to do."

While he spoke, his gaze dropped back down on the floor. And now he was standing like this in front of his deathly ill friend, his head lowered and his voice almost breaking. It was unbearable for him to be so vulnerable and helpless when he should be strong for his friend.

A sting went through John's heart at Sherlock's words. He didn't have a clue about what was going on in Sherlock's head. This was more empathy than he ever expected of his sociopathic friend. The overwhelming feeling of relief and gratefulness welled up inside him.

"There is nothing specific you got to say", John replied after a while as he sought Sherlock's eyes.

"It would help me a lot already when you just treat me and talk to me like usual. Please let us live like we used to do as long as we can. I don't want you to be afraid to talk to me. I'm still the same person. I didn't change in any way just because I fell ill. I was never looking for the people's pity. Not back then when I came back from Afghanistan and I don't do now. You were one of the few people who never pitied me. Please, don't start to do that now."

John swallowed, waiting for Sherlock to look back at him. "I'm still the same."

Sherlock nodded his head, taking in a deep breath and straightening himself up. "You're right, I … I should have known that."

"It's alright", John assured him and a small smile showed on his face. "How about a cup of tea?"

Sherlock smiled back at him. "Sounds excellent."


End file.
